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3232158635652I’m Not Very Good At Golf.http://www.momfeathers.com/im-not-very-good-at-golf/
http://www.momfeathers.com/im-not-very-good-at-golf/#respondThu, 31 Jan 2019 11:48:14 +0000http://www.itsfineirantoday.com/?p=98Read More about I’m Not Very Good At Golf.]]>Once, my husband invited me to the driving range and as much fun as it sounded, it wasn’t. When I did hit the ball, I couldn’t hit it farther than a foot and a half. After twenty minutes, I got frustrated and ended up sitting on the grass drinking an over-priced beer from the clubhouse and watching him hit two full buckets of balls.

When he was done, over an hour later, I was sprawled across the soft putting green behind him.

Dead from boredom.

It was not my most favorite together-evening.

It was good it wasn’t first date. There likely would not have been a second.

My favorite together-evening was three weeks after I had my second baby and my husband and I attended an award dinner. It was boring and the food was sub-par but the walk around downtown after, on a warm spring evening? That was pretty awesome. I’d wear those heels that felt two-sizes too small for my swollen, postpartum feet all over again for a stroll through the outdoor lights of the 16th Street Mall.

Fast forward to a warm, sunny afternoon last fall, when we decided a fun together-afternoon would be mini-golf with our kids. Because who doesn’t love perpetual putting? Our kids could totally do this!

Turns out, mini-golfing with kids is one part confusion, two parts agility, four Hail Marys, one sign of the cross, and the rest chaos. It’s not nearly as glamorous as the PGA and here is why:

We had to intercept our three-year-old like a defensive line everywhere he tried to run. Which was everywhere.

We had to peel him off the fence.

My husband pretended our kids were old enough to take the game seriously.

My husband pretended our kids were old enough to hold a golf club properly.

Everyone was putting at the same time.

Everyone was fighting because someone putted the ball into the hole on their turn, despite the fact that they are all having the same turn at the same time.

One child declared themselves the winner because they putted the ball directly in the hole—with their hand.

The non-winners cried.

Someone somersaulted across the green.

Swinging the club in the PGA doesn’t usually end up with everyone having to jump back, or duck.

Swinging the club in the PGA doesn’t usually end up with the golf club going airborne in mid-swing.

On more than one occasion our children took their ball and our game into the middle of the party ahead of us to join their game.

We had to peel our three-year-old off the faux rock wall that houses a rushing waterfall with dyed water by the mini ghost house gold mine.

Holes 4-9 were played by dinosaurs roaring the greens and kicking the balls around until they bounced off the brick borders.

Someone wandered over to the 18th hole from the 4th hole and put their ball into the forever pocket where it never comes back.

Someone else was mad they had to share a ball despite not losing theirs.

Not everyone really golfed.

And while we did manage to complete 18 holes, we were exhausted.

Well, I was.

I mean, it’s still golf.

Our kids had the time of their life. The other people on the course were excited to see us leave and someone may have clapped. My husband wanted to play another game right after that on the second course. Everyone was down.

I was too.

But, only if I could sit on the faux grass drinking an over-priced beer from the clubhouse and watching him chase three kids and four balls all while dodging swinging clubs.

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/im-not-very-good-at-golf/feed/098Beauty Really Is Only Skin Deep.http://www.momfeathers.com/beauty-really-is-only-skin-deep/
http://www.momfeathers.com/beauty-really-is-only-skin-deep/#respondFri, 25 Jan 2019 09:15:53 +0000http://www.itsfineirantoday.com/?p=115Read More about Beauty Really Is Only Skin Deep.]]>I don’t care about what I look like these days. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t care about my appearance, it’s that my appearance isn’t really worth caring about.

I don’t mean that I gave up on practicing personal hygiene—although some days I do forget to brush my teeth until 4:00 p.m.

I don’t mean showing up everywhere in my fleece pants and scruffy hair—although it is my preferred attire.

I don’t mean not using lip gloss or eye-liner—although most mornings I’m too tired and lazy to put those on too.

What I mean, is that it’s not worth investing thousands of dollars into trying to look younger when I’m going to get old anyway.

Using expensive facial creams made with bird droppings or fibers cultured from a sheep placenta that promise to trigger skin cell activity are as far-fetched as…well…anti-aging products. I’m too cheap to get laser hair removal and I no longer care about applying foundation on a daily basis—especially in summer when it feels like wearing a second face. The sun is hot here, and the damage is real. When you wear glasses and a hat no one is looking at your foundation anyway.

I won’t entertain gels, creams, or cryotherapy as a substitution for exercise and I don’t see why you can’t have a second slice of pie.

Or a third.

Heck, eat the whole thing.

The Global Anti-Aging Market was worth $250 billion two years ago and is estimated to reach $331.41 billion by 2021.

That’s so much pie.

While business is all well and good for the people who make the product, creams and injections only go as far as how long you’re alive and young enough to not age. They don’t really prevent you from aging. No product can firm 70 year old skin so that it’s 25 again. Besides, once you’re dead, you’ll have spent it all for nothing. You won’t have crow’s feet because bone doesn’t wrinkle when you flash that eternal grin. Bare Minerals can do nothing for the condition of your skin once it starts to decompose.

Absolutely no amount of concealer is going to cover those eye circles.

Amiright?

Beauty really is only skin deep and there is no such thing as an old soul.

Maybe that’s why we never really feel any older at 40 than we did at 23—despite being able to slap our underarms and watch them roll like a storm wave in motion. My point is that we all get old—if we’re blessed enough to live that long. So, why not just embrace the fact that you get another day to live and each stage of life has something to offer us.

If you want a true anti-aging miracle, wear sunscreen and be happy.

Find the joy in your life, even when it’s not going great—it’s always there. There is no better fountain of youth than being positive, practicing kindness, love, and laughter.

Happiness is an anti-aging secret that not a single supermodel exhibits when she walks down the runway.

Iamright.

But you don’t have to look like her.

Because you can eat fast food and can have pie.

Enjoy what you have.

Love who you are.

Find your happy because there is joy, no matter how hard life gets—it’s always there. You can absolutely keep the jar of anti-aging cream, but just remember two things: it’s only skin deep and have that second slice of pie.

Heck, eat the whole thing.

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/beauty-really-is-only-skin-deep/feed/0115I Never Asked For Help With Chores.http://www.momfeathers.com/i-never-asked-for-help-with-chores/
http://www.momfeathers.com/i-never-asked-for-help-with-chores/#respondWed, 05 Sep 2018 15:42:25 +0000http://www.itsonlywednesday.com/?p=169Read More about I Never Asked For Help With Chores.]]>My seven-year-old was excited when I asked her to help me with the laundry. I never asked for help with chores because somewhere along the fast-moving line of motherhood, I concluded that it was easier and faster to do it myself.

I know, it’s not necessarily better.

I know, it’s good for kids to help and have chores of their own.

And mine do, but not the same household chores I tend to handle.

Make their beds? Yes.

Clean toys? Yes.

Feed animals? Yes.

Clean a bathroom? Possibly.

Although, that’s not the right question. The question is, do I want a toilet brush wielding three-year-old to chase his sister around the house screaming, “Let me brush your hair! You never let me brush your hair!”

Maybe I never wanted help because it takes two of my kids no less than fifteen minutes to apply a single shoe. Then, ten more to find its partner and a bonus fifteen more to apply that one. Let’s not even get into the mathematics that is getting into a car and buckling up.

Maybe I never wanted help because when I do ask for it, it doesn’t get done at all.

Maybe I never wanted help because, until now, I haven’t had a child old enough to follow directions or have the mental capacity required to understand how to fold two socks together without trying to put it on the cat.

So, it has just been easier for me to do it myself rather then to invite a gaggle if young-ish kids to jump on my bed in a fresh pile of laundry, tossing socks and underpants all willy-nilly into the air like it was confetti. I don’t need more reasons for my kids to act like groupies twisting their heads and hair to Ratt’s Round and Round—a fine childhood theme song because who doesn’t like every version of The Wheels on the Bus?

Mom’s good time is silence and having the clothes folded and put away before anyone can climb them.

I’m not sure why I’ve never utilized this handy helper feature that was hidden in my child these past few months. Not only did she fold the massive pile of socks—which I hate doing and is the reason my light-colored laundry is only ever washed as frequently as Mercury goes into retrograde—but she seemed to enjoy doing it.

So, when she was finished, I casually pushed over the pile of underwear in her direction.

She folded those too.

Not wanting to push my luck, I handed her some clothes and asked her to put them in the dressers.

She did it.

I looked around my house for a hidden camera. What was this listening and following directions thing my child was doing?

The next day she asked to help clean up after breakfast. She hand washed all the dishes, then wiped down the table. Then vacuumed up the crumbs off the floor around the table before cleaning up after the cat. I stood by the counter hiding my curiosity behind a cup of coffee that was still hot. Pretending not to be fazed by her actions.

I checked outside to see if a pig might fly by.

She picked up her toys.

I pinched myself.

She helped her three-year-old brother get dressed.

I asked him to pinch me—which he gladly did. Four times and intermittently throughout the day.

What was happening?

She didn’t want money.

She didn’t want toys.

What gives?

After the weekend was over and I tucked her into bed, I thanked her for her help. She smiled and said, “It was fun doing your house stuff with you, Mom.”

And there it was.

That was it.

She just wanted to be with me.

My days are full of things that need to be done around the house. I don’t always take the time to sit down and visit or play with my kids like I need to. So, she found a way to make that time with me.

I thought back to when she was a baby and unable even to have a conversation with me. Those days were long and lonely when I was by myself a lot. Now, she was chatting away about all kinds of things relevant and irrelevant and cacpable of understanding and answering. Honestly, it was a breath of fresh air. For the first time, we were becoming friends. She found her way to me through the things that I do every day.

I thanked her for her help and told her she did a great job and how I appreciated every little thing she did and every big thing she did. She beamed with pride. Her eyes full of love. I tucked her in and turned out the lights.

I never asked for help with chores because somewhere along the fast-moving line of motherhood, I concluded that it was easier and faster to do it myself. I never saw my housework as an opportunity to spend time with my children.

I went downstairs to put away the last of the clothes on my bed and walked into my room just in time to see clothes falling from the ceiling like glittering sparkle lights from a disco ball and my son jumping on the bed headbanging to his own version of The Wheels on The Bus.

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/i-never-asked-for-help-with-chores/feed/0169This Wasn’t Our First ER Rodeo.http://www.momfeathers.com/it-wasnt-our-first-er-rodeo/
http://www.momfeathers.com/it-wasnt-our-first-er-rodeo/#respondWed, 29 Aug 2018 16:01:59 +0000http://www.itsonlywednesday.com/?p=191Read More about This Wasn’t Our First ER Rodeo.]]>Two weeks ago I was in the emergency room with my husband and son.

Again.

This wasn’t our first ER rodeo. It was our fourth.

He’s three.

I’m not sure that I’ll be able to survive his childhood without multiple nervous breakdowns.

He was tipping this top-heavy wooden stool on its side—after we told him not to because its dangerous and he could hurt his feet if it fell. Sure enough, the stool slid, fell, and landed on his big toe.

No one ever listens to me.

I know a thing or two about the basic laws of gravity when paired with physics. Not because I was a great student, but because I’ve done this stuff before.

It was an epic I-told-you-so-moment that missed it’s fanfare because there was a lot of blood and everyone was screaming. The more one child screamed, the more the other children screamed. Obviously, my son screamed because it hurt. His sister screamed because she saw blood, and the last child screamed because everyone else was screaming. If you had walked into our home that very second, you would have expected to see a chainsaw-wielding man wearing a burlap sack over his head. Drawn on the front would be a happy face so ridiculous it would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so scary.

So, we shelved the told-you-so dance for another day and loaded everyone in the car and screamed the entire seven miles to the Children’s Hospital.

Literally.

It was a long night because emergency rooms work their way down from the most to the least critical. So, if you show up at the ER because your baby has a 101-degree temperature and no underlying health issues, you’re going to be waiting awhile. The child that shoved the Lego up his nose is going to get in before you. But before him, will be the child who dropped a wooden stool on his toe and smashed it to little toesies. Before that kid, will be the child whose parents are having a much worse night than anyone else.

When we were finally called, we were assigned a registered nurse. So, I’m not sure why he wasn’t in our room when it was time to hold my son’s foot while the doctor sewed his toe back together. My son wanted Dad to keep him close which left me with the proverbial short straw. The designated foot-holder.

“It’ll be just like sewing class in junior high,” I thought to myself, as I felt the needle going in and out of my son’s foot while I blankly stared at everything but what was going on next to me.

Of course, it wasn’t really like home economics. When I was in the seventh grade, I don’t recall sewing a pillow that looked like a bloody big toe. My pillow was a banana with a blue, felt face that had a grimace because it was supposed to be frozen.

Dan was our RN. He should have held the foot. He was stronger than me, and I’m guessing a lot less queasier than I am. Or not. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t in the room. Maybe he saw the dressing casually littering the table like red crepe paper and decide this project wasn’t for him.

I couldn’t blame him.

If I weren’t morally obligated to be in that room and to hold that little foot that I gestated for nine months, I’d have ditched out after the stool dropped and gone to find a cigarette. Even though I don’t, and have never smoked in my life.

After it was done, a woman came in and gave him a popsicle. He ate it while we waited for her to come back in with a boot for him to wear since a shoe wouldn’t be covering that toe for several more weeks. And, she did. But it was for a baby. So, she said she’d come back. And, she did. But the boot was too big.

“Sorry,” she said, “we don’t seem to have any in between sizes here.”

Of course, they didn’t have any child-size boots. We were in a Children’s hospital.

I watched her unpack the boot that was big enough for my husband’s foot. We all watched her wrestle with the plastic wrapping and cut the velcro straps down. She proceeded to put it on, and when we picked him up, it slipped off.

She attempted this twice before we stepped in and told her it was fine. Probably we had an open-toed sandal, or whatever.

I was glad she wasn’t in charge of anything important.

We left sometime after midnight, ready to put this day behind us and get on with the days of recovery. It’ll be several weeks before this one is completely healed.

Even though it wasn’t our first ER rodeo, it never gets easier—well maybe the intake process does since they already have all of our information on file.

It’s the little things.

I’m confident it won’t be our last visit. As you can see from the photo, he was back at it by the end of the next day. I’m definitely not sure that I’ll be able to survive his childhood without multiple nervous breakdowns. I just might need a cigarette.

Yes, this part is in red on the supply list—as if the color is to emphasize the sheer importance of what could happen if you don’t do it.

The world will implode.

The teacher will be angry.

Your child’s supplies will vanish into thin air.

That’s over 200 writing instruments. Don’t forget the 12 sticks of glue, the three boxes of tissues, the Clorox wipes, book covers, regular glue, scissors, and rogue hairs that may or may not fall off your child’s head in class.

“Dear parents, your child isn’t the only one with brown hair. I cannot possibly be expected to label every hair from every head in this classroom.”

When I asked why, my veteran daughter— who survived the first grade—said it was just in case someone lost a crayon, or it got stolen. Then, the teacher would know who it belonged to.

Makes sense.

But.

“If you stole a crayon,” I asked her, “wouldn’t you peel the label off immediately?”

There was silence as we both stared at each other, processing the advice I had just inadvertently given her for what to do if she ever stole anything.

Not my finest parenting moment.

Seriously though, if one of these kids had the gumption steal a crayon I would think the first thing they would do would be to take off the label—it’s not like they stick anyway. You can’t argue that you are using a crayon that belongs to you if your name is not on the crayon. If you remove the label, there is no name, and the evidence is circumstantial. The teacher would have no choice but to throw the case out.

Acquittal by recess.

Besides if you see you have a missing red crayon, why wouldn’t you just get a new red crayon from one of the other boxes you started school with? It’s not like there’s a shortage of boxes in the classroom, every kid brings four boxes of 24, plus Walmart carries them year-round. If someone needs a crayon badly enough to steal it, immediately followed by destroying the evidence, let them have it.

Let God sort it out. Weeds and wheat.

The worse case scenario is all four red crayons are swiped from my kid, and she’s left with four red-violet crayons. I know it’s a b-list crayon, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“Tell your teacher that the apples in the math tree are pink because they aren’t ripe yet. It’ll be okay, Christmas is coming.”

Last year, I (and every other mom I knew) labeled every pencil, crayon, colored pencil, marker and every other item that was required of me. I labeled everything but my kid. And that’s because my label maker ran out of tape and I ran out of label cartridges.

She was on her own.

Now that I see this year my second grader isn’t required to label every item, but my first grader still is, I’m wondering what’s going to happen to these supplies in the first grade rooms that every item warrants a label?

Are they going into a community bin and each child is left to dive for their labeled crayons to see who can find all their crayons the fastest? Because this is a good idea.

Are they being used as currency?

Are they doing a crayon lottery?

Is stealing this big of an issue with the first-graders?

Anyway, I don’t want to label 96 crayons. Or 36 pencils (that I had to sharpen twice because my three-year-old “helped”). Nor do I care to label 24 colored pencils, 12 glue sticks, 20 markers, and a partridge in a pear tree. Yes, I’m lazy. But also, do you know what happens when you label 96 crayons?

You waste an hour or more of your life that you’ll never get back.

You’ll get two of those boxes back at the end of the year, unused, with a pile of labels at the bottom of the box because they all fell off.

You’ll get carpal tunnel.

You’ll be pre-qualified if taking crayons out of the box and putting them back in ever becomes an Olympic sport.

Your kids will help with only the crayon colors they like—so, they’ll label six crayons.

I’m not doing it this year.

In the words of the great Billy Idol, with a rebel yell, I’ll cry no, no, no!

(I know, it’s “more! more! more! ” just roll with me ).

I’m not worried about the repercussions from not labeling every single crayon. What’s the worst that will happen? I’ll get an email saying that I didn’t do it? Someone will steal the entire box (which is also labeled), and I’ll have to buy more crayons? That’s fine. I’m an Amazon Prime member. I’ll get a 12-pack of 24 for $11.00. Sure, it’s a terrible deal, but it covers the “free” two-day shipping (there’s no such thing as free).

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/i-dont-want-to-label-96-crayons/feed/0136I Ditched the Fitbit.http://www.momfeathers.com/i-ditched-the-fitbit/
http://www.momfeathers.com/i-ditched-the-fitbit/#respondWed, 15 Aug 2018 21:23:34 +0000http://www.itsonlywednesday.com/?p=88Read More about I Ditched the Fitbit.]]>My friend Kate thinks I’m overthinking the concept of wearing Fitbit again. I probably am because I overthink everything. So maybe the photo above is a bit dramatic. I mean, it’s not really like that. Except when it is like that, which is all the time now.

Freedom!

Like Mel Gibson screamed it and George Michael sang it.

I ditched the Fitbit earlier this year after I came home from a silent retreat during Lent. I went out to the middle of nowhere for four days and stayed at a Benedictine abbey not too far from where I live. While I was there, I had no WiFi, cell phone service, or a charger for my Fitbit. What I had was a lot of time, a lot of silence, a lot of contemplative nuns around, and there was an alpaca.

March 3, 2018.

That was the last time I used it.

Now that I’ve been home for a while, I still can’t get into the habit of wearing it again. Maybe it’s too bulky. Maybe it’s the radiation exposure doctors aren’t really sure about. But, I think it’s the 24 hours a day, seven days a week connection it offers.

Once a luring device that got me back into shape, back into running, and beating prediabetes, I didn’t go anywhere without it. I gingerly covered it in the rain. I diligently charged it every three days so I wouldn’t be caught in the horrific first-world problem of being in a hot-stepping streak only to have the battery die at noon (causing me to lose a work week challenge that I was destined to win). I made sure to have the Fitbit near the edge of my pillow so the gentle vibration of the alarm would wake me.

It was a lifestyle. A fast-paced, crazy, connected, party-infused lifestyle. Just kidding, it was an addiction.

Today it’s in a drawer.

After I got home from the abbey, I went to the store and bought a $28.00 Timex.

Gone were the notifications that someone was ahead of me in a challenge.

Gone were the weekly email updates on my fitness progress.

Gone were the badges letting me know I’ve walked around my house so much I’ve lapped the Sahara Desert six times.

Gone were the sync-ups that I religiously participated in every thirty-minutes to see how many more steps I had to get in to stay on top of my friends list.

Gone was the competitive element that made me start to obsess over winning.

Gone were the 11:00 p.m. laps around my basement to ensure my competition would have no less than 3,000 steps to catch up on in the morning (giving me ample time to wake up and stay ahead).

I was now disconnected.

I was free.

I was free to go for a run or not, because I wasn’t competing for accumulated steps. I was free from knowing how many steps it was between my driveway and the eight-mile loop I was trying to master. I was now able to run when I wanted because I wanted to run, not because I needed steps. I left my phone on the counter (after a week of syncing to a phantom app that I had removed and now needed to break the habit) and never looked back.

I still keep track of my exercise, but I don’t need to know how many steps I got on the elliptical or how many flights of stairs I’ve climbed before 10:00 a.m., nor do I need a Fitbit to calculate my running time. I use my watch to figure it out the old-fashioned way; math. I use a GPS app to record distance I run and a spreadsheet to log my exercise—Excel does most of the math for me.

I have said no thank you to the 21st-century watch wearing. Nope. My Timex doesn’t care about steps. It’s chill.

It’s smaller, lightweight, also has an alarm, and has a pretty indigo-green light that doesn’t distract my toddler at bedtime. When I needed to know how many long minutes I had spent in his bed pretending to sleep while he flopped around like a fish out of water, the bright light from the Fitbit lit up the corner of his bed like a lighthouse beacon guiding maritime pilots into shore safely. It was like attracting a swarm of crazy mosquitoes that suddenly remembered Mommy had a button on her watch to push.

My Timex runs on a battery so it never needs to be charged and it’s water-resistant up to three miles in case I get crazy and jump in the shower without thinking, or decide today is a good day to roll around in a rain puddle. Thinking about the consequences of my actions isn’t always something I have time for.

Now that I’m in the heart of my first half-marathon training I have toyed with the idea of wearing the Fitbit again, and I’ve put it on once or twice.

That’s about all I’ve done.

Put it on and then immediately take it off.

I just can’t do it.

The un-Fitbit life is a free one for me.

My friend Kate still thinks I’m overthinking the entire thing. And probably, she’s right. I overthink everything. The photo above is a bit dramatic. I mean, it’s not really like that. Except when it is like that. Then, it’s a little more like this:

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/i-ditched-the-fitbit/feed/011803Home Renovations Are Kind Of Like Marriage.http://www.momfeathers.com/hello-world-2/
http://www.momfeathers.com/hello-world-2/#respondThu, 09 Aug 2018 02:52:58 +0000http://www.itsonlywednesday.com/?p=1Read More about Home Renovations Are Kind Of Like Marriage.]]>There are four things that will put stress on a marriage:

Having kids.

Renovating your home.

Having kids inside your home while renovating.

Renovating your home with kids “helping.”

Numbers three and four are the hardest because few things are more stressful than a two-year-old swinging a floorboard around with nails sticking out of it.

Home improvement projects are a cheap form of marriage counseling. By the time you finish the project, you will have aired every grievance you can think of and every offense that happened from the day you met through yesterday afternoon.

You’ll start with your current project then move on to past projects. That will ultimately result in arguing over who works harder, who did what today, and who should be doing more. Then you cruise into who has the weirdest family and end with who is less thoughtful and how many times someone had to take out the trash — a responsibility that wasn’t even theirs until last Saturday.

All the little imperfections you usually ignore about each other become amplified because the contractor didn’t take the time to put the light-switch cover on straight and the cabinet installation has gone from being finished on November 20 to being installed on December 15th. It will take them five days. You have family arriving on December 21.

One of you micromanages way too much, and the other one doesn’t do things precisely enough. You are in a hurry and don’t care about accuracy; he is indecisive, and the reason you don’t have flooring picked out yet.

“We can only do this once,” he says. “We can’t cut corners.”

“We need floors for Christmas,” you say.

“We don’t need the floors now; we can do them later. We’ll buy rugs.”

“Did Joseph do this to Mary at the ninth hour?” you ask. “Is that why the inns were all full?”

“I would hardly compare this to that,” he says. “You’re not even pregnant.”

It’s about priorities. When you have no appliances or countertops, or cabinets, or running water, or electricity, floors aren’t at the top of his list. Never mind that picking sub-flooring splinters out of your behind until Easter is on yours.

And though you know he’s right, you don’t care because you’re fighting and a fight is no time for submission and humility. It’s about winning.

Before you know it, you’re googling the statistics to see the percentage rate of people who file for divorce citing “home improvement.” Divorce, though, is not an option. You can no longer afford one because, together, you settled on the level three granite even though you were partial to the level two option.

So, you walk away.

Sure, faces were made when backs were turned, but whatever.

You find a calm solace pulling out flooring nails in another room, which is oddly soothing and zen-like. He finds it with the new Shop-Vac that has a HEPA filter, which could very well save lives with all the drywall dust that is now covering every square inch of your home like the glistening light sparkles that cover snow on a cold, sunny day.

You come together and reconcile over how well an industrial vacuum cleans your stairs.

“It’s almost brand new again,” you marvel.

“It’s so clean,” he says.

Later, you’ll both sit on the plywood flooring, covered in drywall dust, dirt, and cuts from floorboard nails your two-year-old hit you with. Together, you sit in silence and share a beer on the splintered sub-floor while staring at an open house devoid of anything but time and space. The cat gallops by like she’s in the Kentucky Derby. She is the only one who appreciates the sudden, extreme open floor concept. She hopes it lasts forever.

You know that one day very soon, you’ll sit in that same spot but with a carpet or floor rug underneath you. You aren’t sure which, though, because your husband is still waffling on what to do in that room — and you’ll stare at a beautiful kitchen.

It’ll be a living space you designed and worked on together in a house that wasn’t always yours. Although, very soon, it will start to feel like it is.

Home renovations are kind of like marriage. It’s not always pretty once you pull back the panels and flooring. Despite who does or doesn’t do what, no matter how many times you argue, at the end of the day your marriage is that room you’re working on. You don’t want what was there at the beginning; it didn’t work for either of you when you started occupying and using that space together. You want it better and more custom to fit your life together. You want it to be something you can both be proud of working on and be content and comfortable living in.

So, you’ll keep plugging forward on the project and each other.

You’ll finish stronger than when you started.

You’ll round this hill out with a high-five and an accomplished sense of teamwork.

And you’ll keep the floorboard studded with nails far away from your two-year-old.

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/hello-world-2/feed/0361The Basement Bedroom.http://www.momfeathers.com/the-basement-bedroom/
http://www.momfeathers.com/the-basement-bedroom/#commentsFri, 04 May 2018 15:14:39 +0000http://www.pancakesonsaturday.com/?p=1180Read More about The Basement Bedroom.]]>Last week I moved down to the basement bedroom.

I was on day three of what would be a nine-day respiratory virus that produced a high fever and what doctors call a “non-productive” cough — that means your cough isn’t bringing anything up except for air and an explosion of germs. The cough is mostly just there for the sole purpose of keeping everyone up in your home at night.

In addition to my useless cough, my airways were inflamed. This produced an odd humming noise when I was laying down and sleeping. It woke me up, woke my husband up, bothered the cats, and scared my children when they came wandering into our room at 3:00 a.m. looking for a bed to squat in until it was time to get up for school. One morning around 2:00 a.m. my daughter came into our room about the same time I let out one of those hums. It scared her so much she screamed as she ran to my husband, who was, until that moment, sound asleep. He also screamed. I woke up to both of them looking at each other and screaming.

So, yeah, I was self-conscious about sleeping.

I worried I’d keep us both up, so, I would lay there wishing I could sleep but knowing it wasn’t going to happen anyway because I was coughing non-productively and humming.

I also knew that I wouldn’t get better if I didn’t sleep.

I knew that my husband would go insane if he didn’t sleep.

I knew that our kids would need therapy if they wandered into the room one more time and heard me hum. So, I sadly decided to move down into the basement bedroom.

I sulked about leaving my own bed as I dragged my blanket and pillow downstairs like my kids do when we kick them out of our bed because they woke us up by repeatedly kicking us in the ear. I felt like I had the plague and had been sent off to the lowest point of the house to be quarantined.

“Where are you going?” My husband asked.

“To bed,” I said, “I guess.”

I looked at him with sad eyes.

I waited for a response.

Nothing.

Finally, he said, “You don’t have to sleep down there.”

But, he said it like I tell him, “you don’t have to give the kids a bath.”

I don’t ever mean that when I say it. It’s a rhetorical statement. So, I knew he didn’t mean what he was saying either.

He wanted to sleep.

I wanted to sleep.

I made the bed in the basement. It was a queen bed with the mattress I had had when I was in my own apartment long before I had a husband and kids and before I had a humming problem — back when I lived alone and could cough non-productively as much as I wanted, and no one was around to bother. Those were the days when I lived in the Pacific Northwest and could waste my weekend away with a blanket and a book while the rain softly fell on the rooftop.

As I settled in, I had forgotten how comfortable the mattress was. My old down comforter was also down there, and as I climbed in, I slid over to the middle of the bed and fluffed my pillow. The old sheets were soft and cool on my skin. It was so quiet, just like it used to be in my old apartment. That same apartment where, sometimes, the silence was deafening, and the solitude gave way to wondering when I’d finally meet someone and get married.

That was a lifetime ago.

It’s funny how time changes you and how raising kids can transform you. Since becoming a mom, I have longed for those quiet weekends and that same solitude on more than one occasion. “Enjoy your you time,” a friend had told me, “It’ll be gone all too quickly.”

Back then, when I was on my own, time felt slow. Today, time goes too fast. Despite not having a moment to myself, I often go days before realizing it has been weeks since my last quiet 15 minutes. I’ve longed for that time on plenty of occasions. Who knew that a small part of that old life I missed and yearned for in the throws of teething toddlers was right below the hustle and bustle of my busy family life all along.

When I woke up the next morning I didn’t want to get out of bed.

Ever.

A bed to myself + silence + uninterrupted sleep = amazing.

It turned out that this basement bedroom deal wasn’t so bad after all.

Gone was the tiny sliver of mattress I had to myself because my bed had suddenly become a sleepy time circus of small children. No one was waking me up at 4:00 a.m. because they mistakenly identified a fuzzy piece of fleece on their pillow for a spider. No one was coming to look for me in the dead of night because I was sleeping in a dark basement. My snoring husband wasn’t an issue because I couldn’t hear him a full floor below. Not because of insulation because I slept so damn good in that bed.

I decided that I wanted to sleep in the basement forever.

I slept down there every evening. Suddenly, I didn’t want to get better. I wanted the cough to stay forever, or maybe develop some kind of snoring disorder so I’d have a reason to stay in that room.

I slept there until it was evident I was no longer sick and then I kept sleeping there some more.

One evening I stood with my husband in the kitchen and watched him eat a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. When we were dating, I would have done this with a heavy sigh and a drunk smile on my face as I gazed at his dreamy jawline while he chewed. But after nine years of marriage, I watched him and wondered what in his childhood prompted him always to think it was fine to leave the milk out even though he had no intention of pouring any more.

“Well,” I said, “I’m going downstairs to bed.”

Then rushed out of the room before he could respond.

I slept down there for almost a full week after I was better. I finally did move back up to my own bed. A 3:22 a.m. wind convinced me by way of blowing through the basement window well and creeping me out.

It’s really dark down there.

I still have a “non-productive” cough, going on two weeks now, but it’s going away. I don’t think I’ve been humming though. As of last night, I haven’t woken up to anyone screaming.

Yet.

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/the-basement-bedroom/feed/21180I Have No Fresh Flowers In My Home.http://www.momfeathers.com/i-have-no-fresh-flowers-in-my-home/
http://www.momfeathers.com/i-have-no-fresh-flowers-in-my-home/#respondTue, 17 Apr 2018 17:29:02 +0000http://www.pancakesonsaturday.com/?p=1094Read More about I Have No Fresh Flowers In My Home.]]>See that photo up there?

That isn’t me.

First off, I have no fresh flowers in my home. While I appreciate the fact that the shelf life of Baby’s Breath is four years longer than a Twinkie, they still need maintaining. Which is something else in my home that needs attention. So, until flowers are genetically engineered to yell, whine, throw things at me, or otherwise find a way to get my attention sooner, this probably won’t happen.

Second, for most of my life, my table was so cluttered it never had a corner even to set a cup on. If I had a child who couldn’t stand, and I had to set her down on that table quickly, I maybe needed to shuffle papers around so the clutter was even and the baby wasn’t lopsided. This way she wouldn’t slide off the table.

I know how that sounds. But, she never fell.

Third, anytime I pour myself something hot to drink my children materialize out of nowhere to tattle, ask for a snack, argue their case for a Band-Aid for the microscopic cut on their finger (which is actually ink from the pen they used to draw on my wall), or ask me forty-seven questions in fifteen seconds. Unless that cup of tea in the photo is cold, it’s not in my house.

Finally, I’m a messy person. Let’s just get that out right now.

“Hi. My name is Christina, and I am messy.”

“Nice to meet you, Christina. Looks like you spilled something on your jacket.”

I’m not only messy, but cluttered, disorganized, horrifically scatterbrained, and lazy. I even passed the gene on to one of my children. It’s that child’s bedroom where I always have to stop, take a deep breath, and remind myself that in her wildest dreams, her bedroom couldn’t be as messy as mine used to be when I was her age. I had to make an actual path from the door to the dresser. There were no monsters under my bed because there was too much trash.

So, I found it slightly odd when I discovered that by keeping my house maintained and my laundry at a less-than-tear-inducing level, I felt peace.

Now, this wasn’t something I planned to do. I didn’t set out to have a consistently clean house, it just kind of happened. Like how you pick an avocado from the grocery store and it’s not overripe. After a long weekend away from home, I came back to a clean house. By clean I mean it was cleaner than how I usually kept it. So clean that I told a friend and she said to me, “God’s plans for you are filled with hope. And coming home to a well-ordered house is part of it.”

It made me think.

If having a well-ordered house was part of God’s plan for me, it meant that even if He showed up in my living room in all of His blinding bright and brilliant glory, I wouldn’t be able to find Him under the discarded clothing pile that was my couch.

“Why is the couch glowing?” My husband would say.

“It’s probably another flashlight one of the kids left on,” I would say.

“I need to get the name of the place that manufactures that bulb.”

It was funny to me, that to find peace at home, all I had to do was a little de-cluttering. While that initial method largely consisted of throwing stuff in the trash (my philosophy is that if no one has claimed those items by now, they don’t need them and won’t miss them), it helped.

I know, you can roll your eyes. It’s cool. I did too.

But it works.

I swear by it.

At first, it felt like constant cleaning because it was. Cleaning your house with five or more people living in it is like trying to wash mud off pigs in a field, in the middle of a rain storm. My house wasn’t clean when I started — not by any definition of the word. Not even a synonym of the word. But, as I kept up on things, it gradually became part of the day’s routine.

It was so simple.

The more I picked up, and kept up, the less there was to do.

This is my day’s work. I stay home. It’s my job. So, I began to treat it like one. Including having an end time. I didn’t fold clothes, clean, or otherwise manage my house after 7:00 p.m. That’s how it worked when I had an office job. Whatever had to get done was done first, then I moved down the list. Whatever wasn’t completed by 5:00 p.m. was saved for the next day.

I don’t love cleaning.

I really don’t.

But it feels good to sit down in a clean space. When the kids finally go to bed after fifty thousand glasses of water, seventy rhetorical questions, and fourteen rounds of bedtime prayers, I have a clean home.

I feel like I’ve accomplished big stuff.

Even if it was just vacuuming the floor rug under the kitchen table.

Maybe someday I’ll even get fresh flowers for the counter. At least I know Baby’s Breath will withstand the plight of existence in my home.

For awhile anyway.

At least four years longer than the shelf life of a Twinkie.

]]>http://www.momfeathers.com/i-have-no-fresh-flowers-in-my-home/feed/01094Would Your Family Like To Bring Up The Gifts?http://www.momfeathers.com/would-your-family-like-to-bring-up-the-gifts/
http://www.momfeathers.com/would-your-family-like-to-bring-up-the-gifts/#respondWed, 11 Apr 2018 22:58:03 +0000http://www.pancakesonsaturday.com/?p=1091Read More about Would Your Family Like To Bring Up The Gifts?]]>“Would your family like to bring up the gifts?” the usher said to us, as he leaned across the pew.

“No!” I thought to myself.

“We’d love to,” my husband said.

“Wait, was that out loud?” I thought.

“Wonderful,” the usher said with a smile. “Bring your family to the back when the Credo begins.”

“It was out loud!”

I forced a smile on my face for the usher as he turned to leave.

I sat there wide-eyed wondering what had just happened. Did I just get blindsided by my husband? I thought we were supposed to make these decisions together. Afterall, it was our family. Us. We. Plural.

I turned to him.

We exchanged silence; then I furrowed my brow the way my five-year-old does when I tell her she has to rewrite her name on her homework — “No, write it nicer this time. So your teacher can read it. Use letters, please.”

“What?” he whispered. “You don’t say no.”

“Why not?” I whispered back. “We don’t have to do it. It’s not a commandment.”

Our seven-year-old leaned in.

“Why are we whispering,” she said.

“Because we’re in church,” I whispered.

“Shhhhhh!” our five-year-old said.

“People are praying,” our three-year-old shouted.

“SHHHHHH!” we all said to him.

“We’re bringing up the gifts,” my husband whispered to the kids.

They were excited. They quietly clapped chattered to each other as if they had just been asked to present the gifts of the Magi to the baby Jesus himself.

“I want to take the wine,” one whispered.

“No, I want to take the wine,” the other one whispered.

“No! I am,” the first one fired back.

“You take what the lady gives you,” my husband quietly told them, and hushed them into silence.

My stomach knotted as I sat back in the pew. I have avoided doing this for our entire marriage. It’s not the first time we’ve been asked. Last time, about six years ago at a different parish, I told the usher, “No thanks. we’re good.”

For the most part, avoiding this has been easy because we are almost never on time. But, this was Palm Sunday, and we arrived thirty minutes early, so we didn’t have to stand in the back like we did last year and chase our three-year-old around the statue of Mary — which isn’t even in the back. You get my drift?

He’s much better managed at mass when he’s contained in a small area, unable to escape unless he climbs. Which, oddly enough, he hasn’t tried to do yet.

Yet.

Had I known that rushing everyone out that morning would mean all eyes on us during one of the busiest days of the liturgical season, I would have absolutely second guessed my efforts and let everyone eat their waffles at a natural pace. Which meant they would have finished around Memorial Day.

Taking up the gifts is an honor. I should’ve been thrilled, but deep in the back of my mind, I kept worrying about what might go wrong. I had stomach butterflies at the thought of our three-year-old running up the aisle and grabbing the sanctus bells at the foot of the alter, violently ringing them while singing, “Johnny, Johnny, yes Papa, eating Jesus? No, Papa.” I had visions of him trailing behind us continually shouting, “poop!” while we approached the priest and tried to act like he wasn’t with us.

“Whose kid is this?” We would ask the first two rows.

“Yours!” someone we know would say.

The woman in the back handed me two glass containers of wine and water.

“Hold them from the bottom,” she instructed.

“Great,” I thought to myself, “now I’m completely helpless.”

My daughters both had a closed container of hosts, and when I saw my husband planned to hold our son, I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

He was contained.

Then, the woman handed my son his own container.

Eyes wide again, I stared at my husband.

We exchanged more silence.

Our son dutifully, and carefully held it with both hands. My husband passed on holding anything, so he could have one hand free to intercept the container in case our son opted to throw a Hail Mary pass down the aisle to the priest — whom I’m confident would not have caught it.

We walked up the aisle side-by-side.

I looked down at my five-year-old out of the corner of my eye. Her hands gripped the sides of the container tightly; her face was serious, her eyes fixed forward. That’s when I saw the container tipping down towards her, and the lid began to slide off.

“Holy Mary Mother,” I thought. “Patron saints of metal bowls, physics, and gravity, help her! Don’t let those hosts fall out of that container and onto the floor like an unleavened trail of breadcrumbs.”

If the top slid open far enough, all the hosts would not only come tumblin’ tumblin’ down, as John Mellencamp sang but, she’d never see it happen and would continue on unknowingly punting and stepping on most of them because she had tunnel vision.

There was nothing I could do.

My hands were full.

I couldn’t nudge her.

I couldn’t talk to her.

I focused forward and despite the extreme and sudden intense perspiration under my arms, we made it.

Without incident.

I wanted to cheer and shout “Yeah! Woo!” and high-five myself. Instead, I smiled at the priest, bowed not nearly far enough and walked quietly back to the pew.

I was relieved and, of course, felt silly for worrying about it. Afterall, wasn’t it Matthew who said not to worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow will take care of itself? What could I have done about anything that would happen anyway?

Not much.

Easier said than done sometimes. But a practice worth working on.

I’ll chalk that one up to the patron saint of nervous moms at mass that helped us hold it together that morning.

“Let’s do that again,” our seven-year-old whispered, as we sat back down.